


Wait a Minute Mx Postman

by decidueye



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Delivery Person AU, Fluff, M/M, Nonbinary Akaashi Keiji, Nonbinary Character, Other, Trans Male Character, Transman Bokuto Koutarou
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:52:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6666622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidueye/pseuds/decidueye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akaashi Keiji is a deliveryperson, and the latest change to their route brings them to a man who seems to have an addiction to online shopping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait a Minute Mx Postman

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to kep for beta, and pixie for encouragement. i hope you enjoy this fic; it was written purely for self indulgence.

Keiji sees Bokuto for the first time halfway through their morning delivery round. It takes them by surprise: a man with dirty streaks in ash blonde hair bent over the pavement and holding out an umbrella. It’s held just in front of him, and Keiji watches as the water drips from the edge and down the back of his shirt, drenching him. They move to get a better view, hiding their stare in the hood of their anorak, and finally realise that he’s trying to shelter a huddle of ducklings caught in a puddle on the side of the road. Keiji walks closer - they have to deliver there, anyway - and once they’re within earshot they hear him pleading with the ducklings.

“Come on, guys, the pond is that way! You’ll love it there, there’s real water to swim in and everything...and you won’t get hit. Your mother’s waiting!”

Keiji pauses for a moment, the envelopes they’re holding getting soaked in their hands. Three feet away from them, the image this man presents is ridiculous, and he’s so absorbed by his ‘rescue’ mission that he hasn’t even noticed Keiji’s approach. They think about calling out to him; about pointing out that he could just pick them up and carry them across - his arms are big enough - or that he’s far more likely to catch a cold from staying outside in the rain than six baby ducks are. He seems like the kind of person that needs saving from his own noble gestures.

Not by Keiji, though. It’s 08:30, and they’re at work. They push the envelopes into number 49’s letterbox and move on, forgetting him to focus on their job.

Most of their round is familiar - houses and low rise apartments in the Tokyo suburbs - but Nekomata’s recent retirement means that his zone has been divided up amongst the rest of them, and even though Keiji’s not looking forward to the extra stairs that come with being closer to the city, having three new streets to deliver to takes some of the tedium out of their morning. Extra doors mean extra packages, and that’s always been their favourite part of the job. People’s reactions when they receive a package are completely unfiltered, the deliveryperson a blank canvas for them to project their expectations onto, and Keiji relishes the opportunity to study people like that. They gather stories as they go, saving the most interesting for the end of their shift, when everyone trades jokes over coffee at the post office. Keiji wonders if the extension to their round will provide them with any new regulars.

They move through the streets they know easily, without much event. Tanaka-san collects a new toy for her cat with an arm full of fur and a nose full of tissues, and Keiji once again declines to suggest that she might be allergic. A group of American students yell delightedly when they hand over a care package from home, insisting in broken Japanese that Keiji take a bag of Hershey’s kisses with them, which they decide to pass onto their sister. Washio, a man with a constantly stern expression whose parcels are always decorated with cute stickers, isn’t in, and Keiji leaves the parcel with a neighbour. They take a moment to draw a small owl on the card that tells Washio where it is - Keiji almost considers him a friend after the many brief exchanges they’ve had in the six months since they started delivering to him.

After that, Keiji enters new territory. They sigh as the buildings grow taller, but no less old fashioned; there won’t be any elevators for them to take. Nekomata’s retirement speech, saying that he was retiring for the good of his health, starts to make a lot more sense.

Keiji has five parcels to deliver to new addresses. Two of them don’t answer, and Keiji puts them back in the van to be taken to the post office, unable to safely leave them with anyone else. One is a rakuten order, and the girl who answers dismisses them quickly after stamping their hanko to prove she’s received it, heavy bags under her eyes and a cup of coffee cradled in one hand. Keiji sympathises, even when she slams the door in their face. The next brings the receiver to tears, and Keiji feels rejuvenated, if uncomfortable, when the man grips their hand, thanking them profusely just for doing their job.

The fifth and final parcel is at the last address on their round; a top floor flat at the end of the street near the train station. Keiji takes a moment to catch their breath after knocking, the box tucked under their arm as they lean against the wall, checking the name to make sure they have the right address.

When ‘Bokuto’ answers the door, though, all the air they had gathered leaves their lungs in one steady breath.

The man Keiji had seen earlier that morning is still wet, although this time it seems like he’s just come out of the shower, dressed in nothing but boxer shorts and with a towel draped over broad shoulders. He pushes damp hair out of his eyes to look at Keiji quizzically, and Keiji follows the trail of water down his hooked nose to the bow of his lips, wetting their own and clearing their throat before speaking.     

“Package for Bokuto Koutarou?”

Instantly, Bokuto’s expression changes. He hadn’t seemed unhappy before, but he looks elated now, mouth stretching into a wide smile and eyes lighting up. He rubs his hands together, reaching out to grab the box and put it on the floor behind him, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Oh, man, I’ve been waiting for this! It was supposed to arrive yesterday, and I was getting super worried, you know, thinking I’d made a mistake with the order…you’re a lifesaver, I swear, thank you.”

Keiji shrugs, eyes fixed on the ink that forms flowers over Bokuto’s chest. They’re beautiful, with small splashes of colour against the mostly black artwork. It must have taken a long time to have done, and it cuts off abruptly over one of his pecs, unfinished.

“Just doing my job, sir. Your stamp?”

“Oh, right, sure,” Bokuto’s still grinning when he takes the hanko from Keiji, his hands overlapping their for a second, and Keiji has to remind themself that they’re twenty-seven, not fourteen. “It’s a rice maker. Mine broke.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Bokuto flinches, face falling as he answers, “Oh, right, sorry,” and Keiji sucks on their lips, clearing their throat.

“I saw you earlier. With the ducks.”

Bokuto starts, and Keiji watches the base of his neck flush as he coughs, hand running through his hair, sending droplets of water onto the floor.

“What, really? I didn’t see anyone… that must have looked a little weird, right?”

“That’s one word for it. I wouldn’t say ‘a little’, though,” Keiji replies, and Bokuto laughs, a loud, barking sound that resonates in Keiji’s chest.

“Yeah, right… Anyway, I was on my morning run and I saw their mother calling out to them - or, whatever it is ducks do, I don’t know - and I couldn’t just leave them there, you know? Especially with the weather so bad.”

“You do realise ducks are waterproof?” Keiji asks drily, and Bokuto laughs again. Keiji shivers.

“Yeah, I know that, but I wasn’t thinking that far ahead, and I’ve got a bleeding heart, what can I say? You try ignoring six fuzzy crying babies.”

“Cute,” Keiji says, instead of pointing out that they did in fact ignore them, and him too. They don’t mean it as a compliment, but Bokuto seems to take it as one, eyes widening and blushing further with a more modest laugh.

“I guess…” he says, shrugging, and Keiji makes to turn away. “Hey, wait! What happened to Nekomata-san? This old guy usually delivers here, he likes to yell at me whenever I order heavy shit.”

Keiji raises an eyebrow, “Nekomata-san retired. I’m covering this part of his area for now.”

“So I’ll see more of you? Sweet.” He seems genuine, which catches Keiji by surprise. “Can I get your name, then? I order a lot of shit - a fuckload, to be honest - so it seems fair to learn yours if you’re gonna be forced to look at mine over and over.”

“Akaashi Keiji. I suppose I’ll be seeing you, then.”

“Yeah! Awesome. Have a great day, Akaashi.” Bokuto’s farewell is filled with a buoyant energy, and Keiji makes their way down the stairwell feeling both lighter and intrigued. Their conversation was only five minutes long; they’ve barely scratched the surface of Bokuto Koutarou, but they’re sure that he’s going to become a prominent feature in their afternoon stories.

*

Bokuto hadn't been lying when he told them he ordered a lot. After their first meeting, Keiji delivers to him three more times that week. Bokuto remembers their name every time, and apparently their decision to linger the first time had been a mistake, because he now takes it upon himself to explain and justify every single purchase he stamps for. Post-round coffee at the post office quickly becomes & _ "so what did he get this time, Akaashi?" _ , and Keiji takes the bait every time, responding with a short rant about Bokuto's latest purchases. Keiji wonders how he can afford them, seeing as he's always after their usual delivery time of half past nine, usually in his pajamas and showing no signs of getting ready to leave the apartment. They trade conspiracy theories at the post office - from him being a yakuza boss to falling victim to an unending stream of loan sharks, until Keiji calls a stop to it, feeling their stomach churn from second hand stress. Keiji reflects that Bokuto’s ridiculous to the point of caricature, a comic book hero with no one to save.

In spite of everything, the warm smile Bokuto greets them with when he opens the door has begun to grow on them, particularly on grey mornings when the idea of getting out of bed to do their job seems less than appealing.

"Who even is this guy?" Konoha asks one afternoon, after they tell a story about his attempt to assemble a flat packed chest of drawers, "it sounds like you're talking about a different person every time."

Keiji only shrugs in response, because they don't know. Bokuto remains a mystery to them, and the myriad of deliveries he orders brings them no closer to figuring him out, even with his detailed explanations. It doesn't make sense, how someone like Bokuto, who wears his heart on his sleeve, can evade them so much. They've begun to collect facts on him, almost the same way they'd collect sea shells as a child, storing them away in their mind to take out and examine on quiet evenings:

  1. Bokuto is an athlete. Keiji once delivered sneakers, running shorts and a volleyball on consecutive days, receiving a detailed breakdown on the merits of each. The thought he'd put into each purchase was remarkably meticulous, especially considering the impulsive nature of most of his other purchases. He'd held the volleyball up with pride after making Keiji wait while he unwrapped it, speaking smugly.  
  
& _"I bet you can't guess what this is."_ __  
__  
Revealing to Bokuto that Keiji had played setter during high school had been their second mistake during their interactions with him. When they'd arrived half an hour late to the depot, they'd had to get Sawamura to write on their clock card that they'd been delayed by a 20 minute discussion of the sport. Bokuto had lamented that they hadn't played on the same team ( __& "I almost went to Fukurodani, but I got a better scholarship. Shame, it would have totally suited me, and I could have been your ace!") before demanding their opinion on the current national team. Keiji has never been one for nostalgia, but they'd found themself watching videos of their old matches that evening, examining their plays and reviewing the technique of themself and their ace. They didn't think about how things could have been different.  
  

  2. Sports are Bokuto's only consistent hobby. Everything else (and Keiji uses 'everything' in the most literal of senses), he seems to dabble in for a few days and then discard with a childish impatience. Keiji delivers a paint set one week (“art is a really good way to find yourself, or something - that’s what my sister told me”) and within another two Bokuto’s forgotten he even ordered it, although he seems pleased that Keiji remembers. An assortment of beginners musical instruments - the flute, the ukulele and the recorder - make their way to his door, and Bokuto casts each one aside before the next has chance to arrive.  
  
“Did you even try?” Keiji asks when Bokuto tells them the ukulele is too hard, arching an eyebrow. Bokuto huffs, indignant.  
  
“Of course I tried! For like, six hours straight. I couldn’t play the song I wanted.”  
  
“That’s not how it works, Bokuto-san. I didn’t take you for a quitter.”  
  
“Hey now, Akaashi, that’s not fair..!”  
  
Eventually, Bokuto asks for advice on the next thing to pick up, and Keiji, fearing for his budget, suggests origami. It’s a hobby they’ve had for years to tame their own restless fingers; an alternative to the knuckle cracking that always frustrated their mother. Three days later, Keiji delivers another parcel to Bokuto, and he beams with pride as they stay to watch him open it - something they do without thinking, now, before Bokuto even has the chance to ask.  
  
“Look, Akaashi, origami sheets! I got really pretty ones, too, and an instruction booklet. Mum says it should be relaxing.”  
  
Keiji wonders idly if Bokuto has the patience for origami, but they smile and wish him luck anyway, That’s the last they hear about it though, and when Bokuto doesn’t offer up any excitement or complaints on their next visit, they assume the sheets went the same way as the paint set.
  3. Some things, Bokuto isn’t so willing to share. Keiji delivers packages with handwritten labels, the characters of his name outlined with care and affection. They learned not to wait after they delivered the first, when Bokuto hid the package behind his back, obviously uncomfortable before focusing on his latest retail order.  
  
Keiji knows they’re books - they can tell by the size and weight - but they don’t get to find out any more about them until a handwritten parcel is the only package they have to deliver to him. By now, Keiji knows the routine, so they hand the package over, turning to leave as soon as they get his stamp, but Bokuto calls out to them. They stop, looking back, and Bokuto rubs the back of his head, chewing on his lip.  
  
“You might have noticed I’m pretty impulsive,” he begins, flushing when Keiji snorts softly, “I spend a lot. I can afford it, but I’d rather not have to, and there are other things as well… so my sister, she sends me these self help books.”  
  
Keiji listens quietly, unsure of what to do with this display of vulnerability. They don’t know if they should offer an opinion, so they stay quiet.  
  
“Most of it seems like bullshit, but I’ve tried a few things and they really helped, so she keeps sending them,” Bokuto coughs, scuffing his heel against his wooden floor. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, really; I guess I’m just used to our conversations, and...oh, shit, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”  
  
“Not at all,” Keiji says instead of their usual, sharp teasing. “It’s fine. I’m glad your sister is helping you.”  
  
Bokuto laughs, “she’s great, right? Way more patient with me than I deserve.”  
  
“I doubt that,” Keiji replies. “She can obviously see that you want to improve.”  
  
Bokuto falls silent after that, thanking them quietly and bidding them farewell. When Keiji leaves, Bokuto is still a mystery but the image of his sister stays prominent in their mind: someone who loves him dearly, writing his name carefully on the packages she sends to help him.
  4. Bokuto’s sister isn't the only person who cares about him, and it’s easy to see why. Alongside the orders, Keiji delivers postcards and handwritten letters from all over the globe. Bokuto always has a story to share about the people who wrote them, recognising their handwriting instantly and telling Keiji about the people he met whilst on tour with the volleyball team (he never brags outright, but his chest does puff out a little when he notices Keiji’s eyebrows raise, impressed, and he spends a little longer describing his match - the context to the story - than Keiji thinks is necessary). He makes the effort to stay in touch with all of them, offering help whenever it's needed, and they repay him with kindness and thoughtful gifts that Bokuto always presents proudly to Keiji the next day. His sister continues to send him books, as well as DVDs and handpicked care packages, and Bokuto blushes when he receives them.  
  
“It’s like I’m a kid, honestly, she babies me…” he says, but Keiji doesn’t think that’s it. Watching the enthusiasm with which Bokuto receives every gift or letter just tells them that he’s loved, and deservedly so. Keiji finds themself wondering what it would be like to be friends with Bokuto; wonders if it would be too optimistic of them to think that they may have reached that point already.



The facts pile up like puzzle pieces, and Bokuto fast begins to overtake Washio as their favourite person to deliver to. It’s bizarre to have favourites in a job like this, Keiji knows, but they always have. Washio is interesting - quiet but endearing - and Keiji had delighted in learning more about him, from the cutely decorated packages he receives every week from a younger cousin to his astoundingly unsubtle crush on his neighbour Komi. He and Keiji have built up a rapport, primarily consisting of polite teasing, but more frequently Keiji finds themself guiltily waving him off once he’s stamped their hanko, eager to reach the final destination on their round.

“Are you sure you don’t have a crush?” Konoha asks them one day, after a particularly long rant about Koutarou’s latest habit - crocheting, which Keiji is sure his hands aren’t delicate enough for. “You can’t keep quiet about him for more than two minutes.”

Keiji huffs, shrugging him off. “I find him interesting, that’s all. Everyone enjoys talking about the things they find interesting.”

There’s a little more to it than that, though, and they know it. More and more frequently they’ve been wondering what it would be like to be on the receiving end of Bokuto’s warm glances for more than what they’re carrying in their hand. They’re spending more time than they would care to admit contemplating what the two of them might talk about if their conversations were longer, and whether they’d be able to get a better handle on him if they had even as much as half an hour together.

They want to be his friend, they think, knowing for a fact that they might be more than a little bit smitten.

In theory, it would be easy to ask Bokuto to spend more time with them outside of the ten to fifteen minutes they have on irregular mornings. He’s nothing if not approachable, and Keiji knows he’s interested in them, if only platonically. He wouldn’t linger so long in his doorway if he didn’t find Keiji’s company at least a little pleasant. Still, Keiji finds the words evading them. They smile demurely every time Bokuto bids them farewell, and watch his door close with a sour expression, bemoaning their own discomfort. As a compromise, Keiji spends more time with Bokuto by finding excuses to deliver to his door even when he hasn’t ordered anything. They ‘misread’ the kanji on parcels, or bypass knocking on his neighbours doors, instead asking Bokuto to hold the package for them.

“I don’t like that woman; she scares me,” Bokuto says, wrinkling his nose when they do just that. Keiji has to agree - the extent of their interaction with Bokuto’s neighbour, an elderly woman with a stern expression, has been her pitying them for having to deliver to Bokuto’s door. Since then, her name has only been read with distaste, and Keiji utters a soft apology for forcing Bokuto to deal with her. Bokuto shrugs, stamping their hanko.

“Don’t worry about it. If it’s for you, I don’t mind.”

It’s then that the hopelessness of their situation truly hits them. The words leave them speechless, biting their lip and holding their hanko a little tighter. It’s all that they can do not to ask him out then and there.

But then again, what would be the problem with that?

Keiji goes home thoughtful, not bothering to share their stories at the post office this time. They’ve never had a problem with asking people out before - being frank is their specialty, and they don’t find it difficult to approach strangers. This time, though, it feels more like an investment; a risk Keiji’s not sure they’re willing to take.

*

Bokuto beats them to it. They’ve been lingering longer at his door, entertaining his ramblings without cutting him short, and he grows concerned.

“Won’t I get you in trouble, Akaashi? I don’t want you to get yelled at because you’re late delivering someone else’s post.”

“It’s fine, Bokuto-san. You’re the last person on my route - there’s no one to yell at me.”

Bokuto’s eyes widen almost comically, and he reaches out to grab Keiji’s arm. Idly, they think that even though they’d gathered Bokuto was intimate with his friends, this is the first time they’ve touched outside of exchanging deliveries. They try not to dwell on it, or on how Bokuto’s hand is large and probably warm against their elbow. They don’t regret the thickness of their uniform. 

“I'm stopping you from getting home? Oh, god, at least let me offer you a coffee or something… I have cake inside?”

Well, that's an offer Keiji can't refuse. They hesitate briefly, eyes on Bokuto's hand against their elbow, and then nod.

“Just one coffee. I have to sign out at the post office.”

Bokuto’s smile is blinding. They file it away as another fact about him, something to think about when it’s hard to sleep. As they step through the threshold of Bokuto’s doorway, they realise they’re a lot more more than a little bit smitten.

Bokuto’s apartment should be spacious for one person - Keiji takes in a large living area and kitchen, with doors leading off to other rooms. He’s filled all that space, though, with relics from his past hobbies, and there isn’t a single patch of wall that’s blank. Keiji looks at the pictures and postcards pinned to the walls with interest, recognising some of them as ones that they’ve delivered themself. 

Bokuto gestures to the Kotatsu in the centre of the living room. “Please, take a seat,” he says, “I’ll be right back with the coffee.”

He moves into the kitchen area, and Keiji takes a seat opposite a trophy space, settling their knees comfortably underneath the blanket of the kotatsu. They hear the sound of Bokuto busying himself with the coffee machine, swearing occasionally and banging mugs onto the counter, watching him out of the corner of their eye.

The trophy machine is full. In front of pictures of what are presumably Bokuto’s volleyball teams are countless medals and trophies, most of them gold. They’re organised with a kind of care Keiji can’t see anywhere else in the apartment, and Keiji smiles, imagining the pride with which Bokuto must have received them, enough to put them on display so clearly. He’s never talked about them, though, and that kind of humility seems strange to them. They file it away as something to ask about.

Warm from the kotatsu, they take their uniform jacket off, folding it neatly behind them, and turn just as Bokuto comes around the counter with two mugs of coffee.

“Here you go - oh, woah…” Bokuto’s eyes go comically wide, looking down at Keiji and stopping just short of the kotatsu.

“What is it?” Keiji asks politely. Bokuto coughs.

“Oh, uhm, it’s just that you’re really hot. I couldn’t tell before because of the jacket. It’s so puffy.”

Keiji blinks, looking down at where the softness of their stomach juts out over their pants, their shirt tucked in unelegantly. Their uniform certainly isn’t ideal for showing off their figure, although they wouldn’t consider themself unattractive. They flush at the neck, and find themself abruptly frustrated with their uncharacteristic shyness.

“Thank you,” they say after a moment, and Bokuto’s answering smile only makes their flush deepen.

He sets the coffee down on the kotatsu, and Keiji cradles it in their hands as he sits down opposite them. Their eyes graze across broad shoulders, following the biceps beneath his t-shirt, and they barely notice the seconds of silence that pass until Bokuto clears his throat, laughing nervously.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I was so eager to get you inside and now I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s unusual for you,” Keiji notes, “although you have just let a stranger into your apartment.”

Bokuto laughs again, more confident this time. “You’re not a stranger, Akaashi,” he replies, and the certainty with which he speaks warms Keiji more than the coffee they’re drinking.

Keiji decides to break the ice, nodding towards the trophy case. “You said you played volleyball, but you didn’t mention you were a professional.”

“I didn’t want to brag,” Bokuto says, but with the way his chest puffs out, Keiji thinks that might be far from the truth. “I played for Tokyo for eight years. I was on the national team, too, but -” he hesitates, expression turning brittle, “I threw my shoulder out before I got any plays in.”

“I’m sorry,” Keiji replies, because there isn’t anything else to say. They remember the joy on Bokuto’s face when they’d talked about volleyball together. Bokuto shrugs, obviously used to hearing it, but Keiji doesn’t miss the way he inhales deeply before speaking again.

“It’s okay. I’ve worked through it.” Keiji thinks it might be more of a work in progress. “Besides, I can still play. I coach now - a kids’ class after school.”

“That explains why you’re always in.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve earned enough that I don’t really need another job at the moment - it pays alright, and it’s great, the kids are great… But I’ve been getting a little worried about the future, lately, you know?”

He’s rambling, Keiji thinks with a mixture of astonishment and adoration. Who admits their financial concerns to their deliveryperson?

“Mm,” Keiji says, looking at him fondly over their cup of coffee. Bokuto must take this as encouragement, because he continues.

“I’m thinking of going back to school,” he tells them, cheeks dusting with a shy pride. “I like coaching so much, so...I could be a gym teacher, maybe? What do you think?”

Keiji startles. “We barely know each other,” and then, when Bokuto’s shoulders sag, “but I think it would suit you, especially if you enjoy what you’re doing now.”

Bokuto’s back straightens, and Keiji admires the way the fabric of his shirt stretches around his chest.

“I thought so, too! Thanks, Akaashi!”

They talk a little longer, Bokuto telling stories about his students and days on the team while Keiji sips at their coffee. They would be content just to listen like this, Bokuto’s voice soothing them despite its dips and hitches, but he’s eager to make them talk in return. He asks them about the post office, whether they see and get on with the other deliverypeople, and about the packages they’ve had to deliver.

“That’s confidential, Bokuto-san,” they tell him, with more decorum than they’ve ever had at the post office. Bokuto laughs.

“Alright. And hey, it’s just Bokuto now, OK? We’re friends, you’ve been inside my apartment. Hell, you can call me Koutarou if you want.”

Keiji thanks him when they leave, not feeling at all upset that they only have time to sign out at the post office before heading home. They’ll catch Konoha up on things tomorrow.

*

The next time Keiji delivers to Bokuto’s apartment he has cake, and it’s not long before staying for coffee becomes a weekly, sometimes biweekly routine. Bokuto will drag Keiji inside to show them his purchases, and Keiji watches him open them, wishing they didn’t cherish his expressions of delight and amazement. It’s almost as if he can’t remember what he ordered; each delivery is a present to himself.

He continues to grill Keiji too, and eventually they relent, telling him about the Americans who always flirt with them, and about Washio’s helpless crush on Komi.

Bokuto listens avidly. “Don’t you want to do something for them?” he asks. “Can’t you set them up?”

“How? I’m just their deliveryperson.”

That’s Bokuto’s cue to launch into an elaborate plot that could have come straight out of a romantic comedy, including Keiji delivering flowers and forging Komi’s signature. Keiji only half listens, following more the shift of Bokuto’s features than the narrative of his words.

It’s ridiculous how captivating this man is.

Six visits later Bokuto brings a cardboard box to the table. He opens the lid slowly, grimacing, and Keiji peers in to see that it’s filled with failed attempts at origami animals.

“I wanted to show you this the first time you came over, Akaashi,” he confesses, lingering over their name as he usually does and making Keiji grip the blanket beneath the kotatsu. “I was too embarassed, though. I wanted to make an owl, but I can’t even do the crane right.”

“Do you have any paper left?” Keiji asks, surprised at themself for speaking up. “I can teach you.”

They spend a good forty minutes after that doing origami, Keiji watching Bokuto’s thick and clumsy fingers with an impossible fondness. They’re late, but they don’t bother to point it out, falling instead into thoughtfulness.

“I’m nonbinary,” they say, speaking abruptly when they’re packing up, and Bokuto looks at them, surprised. 

“What?”

“You’ve been complaining that I never tell you anything about myself,” it’s true. Keiji holds back, especially compared to Bokuto, who would tell you his life story as soon as look at you, and Bokuto had been whining about it since day one, calling them ‘mysterious’. “My gender is fluid; nonbinary. Now you know something.”

Bokuto’s expression changes from delight to horror in a second. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, I’ve been misgendering you this whole time.”

Keiji’s heart warms at the reaction. “That’s okay, you didn’t know.”

“Still! I’m trans, so I know how much it sucks. I’m really sorry.”

That fact takes Keiji by surprise. “You are?”

“Mm. I thought you knew! Considering how we met...my scars are still pretty visible.”

Keiji thinks back to the tattoo on Bokuto’s chest, and the wrinkled, split flesh beneath it. “It never occurred to me,” they tell him. Bokuto smiles, shocked, and Keiji understands that feeling, as best they can.

“Oh, well, then,” Bokuto says, humming happily. “Thank you for trusting me. I’m gonna refer to you properly from now on, don’t worry.”

“It’s no trouble,” Keiji says. “I trust you.”

Bokuto beams, and Keiji is no longer surprised by how true that statement has come to be.

*

Two weeks and three visits later, a replacement is found for Nekomata. The extension to their round is cut suddenly, on a Sunday when they’re handed their updates for the following week, and they greet the newcomer with a frown, the news that they would be missing out on their deliveries to Bokuto sinking in slowly. They don’t have his number; it would have been presumptuous of them to ask for it, but now they wish they had, if only so that they could tell him themself.

The next day, they finish earlier than they have in more than a month, and when they go back to the post office they have nothing to say, watching the clock until Nekomata’s replacement arrives.

“Did you deliver to a Bokuto Koutarou today?” they ask when he does, keeping their tone light. Yaku hums over his coffee.

“The name sounds familiar.”

“He would have been the last on your round.”

“Right...I did. Grumpy guy, right? He slammed the door as soon as I’d got his stamp.”

Keiji doesn’t bother to correct him, sitting back in their seat and suppressing a sigh, the possibility of asking Yaku to deliver a message crossed off their list.

They go through their round on autopilot for two weeks, and it’s only then that they realise just how much they’d come to look forward to seeing Bokuto. Without the prospect in front of them, their job seems dull, and they no longer anticipate getting up for work each day.

They’d never been much of a morning person before. Now, their head feels even more foggy as they drag themself out of bed, the weight of their limbs pulling them down with their mood.

Keiji has never been particularly good at disguising their temperament, and after two incidents of delivering to Washio, scowl taught across their features and conversation short, he asks if they’re okay. The question catches Keiji off guard, and they fumble for an answer, eventually shrugging with a defeated sigh.

“Come back here after work,” Washio says, uncharacteristically firm. “I’ll make you coffee and we can talk.”

Washio, as it turns out, is eager to repay the favour of Keiji’s silent (and often unintentional) encouragement regarding his affections for Komi. His apartment is surprisingly messy, and Keiji crams themself in between piles of books on his two seater couch, nursing a coffee between their palms before trying to explain how they’re feeling.

It’s difficult, and their emotions are tight in their throat, struggling to form themself into words, but Washio is an amazing listener, patient and silent except for a few gruff affirmations. His expression is unchanging, and that might be offputting if Keiji hadn’t already grown used to it, but as it is his grave frown is comforting, a sign that they’re being taken seriously, and they begin to talk. It seems ridiculous to be so caught up in someone they have only ever seen for half an hour at a time, but even talking about him causes a surge in their chest, an anxiety that they’re unsure how to abate.

“You want to see him again,” Washio asks when they’re finished, and Keiji nods. That’s all there is to it, really, as complicated as their feelings towards Bokuto might feel. “Then why don’t you?”

“What?”

“I’m sure you remember his address, and he called you his friend,” Washio explains. “You have no other way of contacting him, so I don’t think it would be rude to pay him a visit.”

Keiji is speechless. Of course, they’d briefly entertained going over to Bokuto’s - indulging in a few fantasies about what might happen afterwards - but the idea had seemed so ludicrous in their own mind. It seemed drastic; an overtly romantic gesture that would only be met with laughter and rejection. Hearing it in Washio’s tones, however, it sounds so simple.

“I’m an idiot,” Keiji declares, and Washio laughs - a rough, low sound that brightens his whole face. 

“Caring too much makes idiots of everyone,” he says. “I’m guessing you’ll want to leave now?”

Keiji thanks him profusely before they do, promising that they will spend more time together in the future. They’re unsurprised by the fact that they want to. Somehow, what had started off as people watching, an act of curiosity to make their time at work pass more easily, has led to them developing real friendships - if only they’d cultivate them outside of work.

It’s a Saturday. Keiji checks their watch: 2pm. There’s no real guarantee that Bokuto will be at home, but Keiji finds themself making their way there anyway, pedalling hard on the bicycle they use to get themself to and from work. They leave it in the hallway of Bokuto’s building, locked to the stairwell and out of the way of any of the residents.

They don’t have their mailbag with them this time, but the staircase somehow feels longer, and their thighs burn on the last flight, their grip tightening on the banister. In the moments they take to catch their breath at the top, they begin to feel ludicrous again. Who are they to interrupt Bokuto’s weekend only to say ‘I miss you’?

They knock on the door anyway. Bokuto takes almost a minute to answer, and when he does, his face freezes at the sight of Akaashi. He’s wearing a loose, grey sweater and gym shorts. Keiji doesn’t think he’s ever looked better.

“Hi,” they say, hoping that it doesn’t come across too much like a sigh of relief. Bokuto’s raised brows furrow in confusion.

“Why are you here?” he asks, and Keiji’s heart sinks. “I didn’t order anything.”

“That makes a change,” Keiji notes, sharper than they intend to be as the disappointment settles. Bokuto huffs, eyes darkening, and makes to shut the door. “No, wait.”

“What?” Bokuto asks, and he’s going for exasperated, but Keiji can tell that there’s more to it. The slight shiver in Bokuto’s voice is enough to persuade them to press on. It’s only then that they realise they haven’t prepared anything to say. They take a breath, hand running through their hair.

“I wanted to see you…” they begin, uncertain in themselves. Bokuto hums, raising an eyebrow.

“So suddenly after all this time? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t contact you sooner. The round changed suddenly and I didn’t have your number...I thought it would be rude of me to intrude like this.”

“It’s not rude, Akaashi. We’re friends.”

“I didn’t-” Keiji realises that confessing they didn’t understand the boundaries of their relationship -  _ I didn’t know if we were _ \- might not persuade him to keep the door open. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“So why now?” Bokuto asks, skeptical, his hand still on the doorframe. Keiji decides that if they only have one chance, they should be honest with it.

“I missed you.”There’s a long silence as Bokuto’s expression transforms. He takes in a sharp breath, mouth opening before he bites down hard on whatever he was going to say, and a flush creeps up his neck from beneath the collar of his sweater. Keiji watches it with interest, shifting as they stand in the stairwell, waiting for his response.

“Do you want to come in for coffee?”

Keiji smiles, relieved. “Tea would probably be better, actually.”

Bokuto’s movements are stiff as he leads Keiji into the living room. The kotatsu is gone, replaced by a small wooden coffee table, and Keiji sits on the couch this time, watching Bokuto through the doorway to the kitchen.

“I...actually tried to contact the post office about you,” Bokuto says sheepishly, as he brings a tray with a teapot and two cups to the coffee table. He sits down next to Keiji, a carefully measured distance away. Keiji notes the gap between their thighs. “But I didn’t know who to call, and they didn’t know who I was talking about. Besides, they said they couldn’t give out your details even if they did know.”

“That would be illegal,” Keiji points out, and Bokuto laughs, flustered.

“I know. It was a weird thing to do.”

Keiji shrugs. “I asked Yaku-san - he replaced me - how you were. He said you were grumpy, and then he didn’t deliver to you again. Why is that?”

Bokuto shrugs. “I stopped ordering.”

“I didn’t think that was possible for you.”

“Well,” Bokuto says, shooting Keiji a shy glance over his cup of tea. “I didn’t have an incentive to anymore.”

Keiji makes to reply and then stops short, falling silent. There’s something loaded in the way Bokuto is speaking to them, cautious and hopeful.

Keiji’s not sure that this is just about being friends anymore.

“Bokuto-san…” they begin, setting their tea down. Bokuto stops them, doing the same and turning towards him, open and vulnerable.

“Please, just this once,” he says. “Call me Koutarou.”

That’s enough for Keiji to move. They press forward, bending  _ Koutarou _ back against the arm of the couch, one hand running through his hair and coming to cup the back of his neck. They pause, the tip of their nose pressed against his, lips parted and looking at him through lidded eyes.

“Koutarou,” they murmur, and Koutarou swallows, eyes large and wide and so, so close. “Is this okay?”

He nods, ever so slightly, and Keiji closes the gap between their mouths, sucking chastely on his bottom lip. Koutarou makes a noise, high pitched and strangled, and then he kisses Keiji in return, large palms coming to rest on the small of their back.

It’s surprisingly easy. Keiji sinks into Koutarou, kissing him long and deep, and their thumb strokes absently up towards his earlobe. They moan when Koutarou pulls their shirt out of their pants, fingers digging into the rolls of their hips. He holds them tightly, like he’s scared to let go, and Keiji chances a look at his face to see that his eyes are screwed tightly shut and a little damp around the corners.

“Are you crying?” they ask, breathless, and Koutarou’s eyes snap open, shining.

“No!” He insists, bringing the heel of his palm to his eyes to wipe them. “I’m not…! It was just surprising, and I’m...oh, god, this is going to scare you, isn’t it?”

Keiji reaches for his wrist, fixing Koutarou with a level gaze. Maybe it should scare them, but it doesn’t.

“I know you, Koutarou,” they tell him, and lean forward to kiss him again. Koutarou whines, pulling them close enough that they struggle to breath, and they bite at his lip in payback, only to have Koutarou open his mouth for them, tongue licking over Keiji’s teeth.

“Oh...shit…” Keiji breathes into Koutarou’s mouth, and Koutarou laughs, his forehead resting against theirs.

“You know… I don’t usually put out without a date,” Koutarou says, still holding onto Keiji’s sides.

“Then don’t,” Keiji says. “I can wait.”

They sit back, and Koutarou gawps at them, empty hands still reaching for Keiji’s hips. “What? Are you serious?”

“About what?”

“You want to date?”

“What did you think all of this was about?” Keiji asks, gesturing between them. They can still feel the weight of Koutarou’s lips against theirs, and they’re mourning the loss. Koutarou sputters, backed up against the arm of the couch, his thumb against his own bottom lip.

“I don’t know…! Friends can - kiss and stuff, you didn’t say what you wanted…!”

“Do you not want to?” They ask, preparing themself for rejection. They don’t have to spend too long disappointed though, because Koutarou shakes his head vigourously.

“I do! I just didn’t think...you would. You did ignore me for two weeks.”

Keiji’s expression turns sour. “And I apologised for that.”

“I don’t know, though, I think that apology was a little lacking. Wasn’t it just so I’d let you in? You should buy me dinner.”

“I literally just offered to do that.”

Koutarou laughs, reaching out to rub his thumb across Keiji’s pursed lips “So....we’re dating?”

Keiji nods, and the smile Koutarou gives them is blinding. He sits up, scrambling closer until he’s practically in their lap, and kisses them again, hard and chaste on the corner of their mouth.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t put out?” Keiji asks, and Koutarou laughs, kissing them on the cheek, and the temple, and the jaw.

“This isn’t putting out,” he says, wrapping his arms around them and holding them close. “I’ve wanted to do this for  _ months _ .”

“Months? You mean this could have been resolved without all of this?”

“It could have been resolved without all this anyway, if you’d just visited me sooner.”

Keiji hums. “I’ll concede that.”

“You’d better,” Koutarou says, so smugly that Keiji has to kiss his grin away.

*

Keiji takes Koutarou to the duck pond for their first date, a bag of frozen peas to feed them in their satchel. They hold Koutarou’s hand and point out a collection of brown and green ducks, all swimming together near the edge of the pond.

“Do you think those are the ones you saved?” They ask, and Koutarou laughs brightly.

“I’d forgotten all about that,” he confesses.

“How could you? It’s how we met.”

“Well, technically, it’s how you met me.”

Keiji smiles, passing Koutarou a handful of peas and then pulling him closer so that they can kiss his cheek.

“I’m very grateful to those ducks,” Keiji says, and Koutarou squeezes their hand, turning his head so he can bury his nose in their hair.

“I’m grateful to the post office,” Koutarou murmurs, and Keiji nods. They don’t think they’ve ever felt so lucky to have their job before. They wrap their arm around Koutarou’s waist, a soft smile on their lips.

Bokuto Koutarou is still something a mystery to them, but as he pulls away to crouch down by the pond, holding out his hand and shouting ‘thank you’ to the ducks, Keiji can’t help but thrilled to find out more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to put this at the beginning, because I didn't want it to shape the reader's experience of the fic, but I wrote Bokuto as struggling with BPD here. It's a self indulgent head canon that I have, but I really wanted to portray the borderline personality in an everyday, non aggravated setting.
> 
> find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/kastronetic) and [tumblr](http://fukurokeiji.tumblr.com/)


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